Dove plunks a shot glass down on the box stack. It's filled with a pinky-brown liquid.
"You don't get vodka without ID," she says patiently, settling in with a wine glass in hand, "but Nyquil used to have alcohol in it, so I'll be willing to bend the rules for whiskey. Might help the cough."
Jason considers it, hacks up a gob of mucus, and figures why not. He's about ninety-five percent sure that Dove's not going to poison him, not after the last two weeks.
He risks a sip, grimaces, and recalibrates to, Nyquil also tastes awful.
"People drink this on purpose?"
Dove just laughs at him, easy and fond.
"I gave you extra mixer already, kiddo. You get used to it."
He hazards another sip. It does feel nice going down, cold and a hair heavier than water against his throat. He coughs again, but it's less sharp.
"Maybe so." Dove tugs a TV tray with a stack of papers on it close to her and nope, Jason does not need to know what that is. "It'll help that hack of yours, though, I promise."
He'll try anything once. Before, when he was too sick to register, it didn't matter so much. Now that he can sit up, the coughs make his chest ache and his throat feel like he gargled nails.
It doesn't taste good, even with the peachy mixer, but after about half of it he does have to acknowledge that the coughs have waned and even when he does start in, they hurt less. It makes his head fuzzy and his lips feel weird, though, and he's not sure if he likes that or doesn't...but it also turns his head off for the time being. Sure, he'll probably head back to base to find it cleared out but that's fine, he built it up once, he'll do it again.
"S'it true that Joker's dying?"
"Supposedly." Scratch-scratch-scratch. "He's been trying to keep it under wraps, but, well, when your face looks like you used poison oak for a wash cloth..."
Jason laughs. It's the least the fucker deserves, really. If he had his way, he'd truss him up and roast him like a rotisserie chicken, but this is fine. It's almost certainly painful, anyway.
"See?" Dove says lightly. "Cough's down."
So it is. Nyquil never worked this good.
He points at the paper stack and asks, "What's that?"
"Less you know, less Mr. Cobblepot can be mad about." Scratch-scratch. "Never you mind."
Humph. It's not like he's gonna tell Batman. Batman can do his own detective work from now on. Or use his new little lacky...but the lacky in question probably can't break in here. Certainly not with a high fever, anyway, so who's the best Robin now?
He slumps back and looks at the window. The rain's not the assault it had been before, just a steady drizzle that tumbles gracefully down the glass. He places a few bets on different drops, loses all but one, and finishes his drink.
"You seen Batman lately?"
"Saw him get run off by the guards," she says, distracted, and wait-wait-wait, Batman's struggling to get in? It's not even that hard!
He sits up. He needs more information.
"No. Security's pretty good." She twists over, frowning. "I'm surprised you got in."
This is beautiful. He'll treasure this information forever.
Dove shakes her head and ruffles his hair.
"I'm sure it's not," she says. "As long as you don't take the underground. Croc's down there."
He knows. He's been lucky, mostly, to avoid him so far...probably not information he should volunteer. But it's still not that hard to get in here. Batman must be losin' his touch.
"It's not!" he protests, and Dove bites back a smile. Humph. This isn't funny. It's just facts.
